Boarded: No Monetary Value
by Working-On-Sanity
Summary: James loved his friends, and would do nearly anything for them, especially Brock. But there was one thing he thought he would never do, and that was to cut his hair. But though it was for Brock, was it inevitable that good would come from his decision?


**BOARDED: NO MONETARY VALUE**

**Summary: **James loved his friends, and would do nearly anything for them, especially Brock. But there was one thing he thought he would never do, and that was to cut his hair. But though it was for Brock, _was_ it inevitable that good would come from his decision?

**Author's Note: **There was an exercise in my grammar textbook that told me to write a short story following the plot of any fiction that was in my literature study book, while using as many vocabulary words from my memorization list as possible. I chose _The Gift of the Magi, _by O. Henry. Since I obviously didn't have to send the finished product in to my teachers (I'm home-schooled), I chose to use the _Pok__émon _characters. Since I didn't have to come up with a plot, I could focus more on wording and dialogue, which, by the way, may seem a bit awkward. I intentionally placed the characters in a mid-1920's setting, and since I'm leaning toward the theory that James has at least _some _British blood in him, gave him more of an English speech pattern.

* * *

><p><strong>BOARDED: NO MONETARY VALUE<strong>

James could barely convince himself that the eve of Christmas had descended so _early. _He was in no way prepared to present a gift to anyone––not to his companions _or _Brock. In fact, just three weeks before, he had spent the majority of an hour pondering over what sort of novelties to gather for his friends, and calculating the general price of what he intended to purchase. But he had overlooked one crucial aspect––he had failed to ensure that he had access to enough money to successfully carry out his shopping. He had not laid any savings into storage to safely keep it hidden until it was needed––when he was in a time of much need, he realized that he had absolutely nothing.

And now, he found himself standing dejectedly into the window of a crowded candy store. Even after poking through each of his jacket pockets numerous times over, he had not discovered so much as a dime nestled into the leather interiors. His gaze swept hungrily over the shelves inside the market, each decorative display boasting opened boxes of beautiful chocolates––the cocoa truffles were round, plump with liquid chocolate filling and drizzled with sugar glaze. Hard button-shaped sucker candies adorned a crimped sheet of tissue paper, each small treat glistening in the ample fluorescent lighting, and caramel peanuts were scattered around a large canister of the treasured delicacy, bonbons.

He stared lustfully at the brightly painted glass jar, feeling his stomach wrench as it protested against the sudden onset of hunger that twisted his internals. Sighing lonesomely, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his flannel trousers and lowered his head, ignoring the warm square of orange light that spread over the snowy sidewalk from the window.

_There aren't very many people I have to buy for, _he reminded himself dully, his mood darkening. _But I'd hate to get them something cheap. And I certainly don't have the means to buy anything decent for them. _

Conflicted between those unsatisfying options, he began to trudge through the lumped mounds of greasy, muddy snow, hardly noticing when tiny pebbles of ice lodged in between the ridges of his boot sole. Each market he passed by sent a new wave of guilt fluttering through his mind––in every corner he glanced, some fortunate individual was hauling along bulging grocery sacks or tote bags. Gaily colored ribbons streamed from what could only be neatly wrapped gifts––James frowned in distaste, quickening his pace in search of a less populated nook of Pewter City.

_It's selfish to think about it, but I wonder if anyone will send me money for Christmas, _he asked himself distractedly. _If I only had even five dollars, I could get everyone a little something. I couldn't stand not putting anything out for Jessie or Brock! _

Gritting his teeth against his escalating anger toward his own predicament, he thrust his fists deeper into his pockets and glared steadily down at the curb, focusing all of his attention on counting the splits and cracks in the aged cement.

"Hey!" an irate voice bit out. "Why'n'cha watch where you're stomping, old man?"

Jerking his head up, James scowled at the sight of the particularly unpleasant-looking child whom he had nearly collided with. The small grade school-aged boy was confidently peering up at him, his narrowed eyes expressing his willful stubbornness. It took James an extended moment to realize that _he _was the one being addressed by the title of an elderly gentleman, and this irritated him more than anything else about the young boy.

"I don't appreciate being spoken to like that," he curtly informed, bunching his tweed sports jacket tightly around himself as if to ward off the boy's foolish wrath. "And that's quite rude of you, calling people such inconsiderate names. I'm a stranger to you; furthermore, I'm not even that much older than you are."

The boy huffed, bored with this eloquent lecture, and merely scratched the short fingers of one hand through his ragged curls of red hair. "Whatever, mister," he replied dismissively, though it was blatant that he was not convinced of James's age. "Sorry and all of that. Now, if you'd excuse me."

It was plainly obvious that the child was impatiently awaiting the opportunity to flee; and flee he did, dashing away so quickly that James was somewhat impressed that he didn't trip over his own oversized galoshes.

_I guess all children are nearly the same, _he assumed crossly. _He reminded me so much of that neighbor's young chap, Ash Ketchum, that it was uncanny._

Begrudgingly, he resumed his trek, not overly enthusiastic about observing his surroundings. It was not until he had reached one of the furthest, most uninhabited crannies of the bustling town that he finally attempted to scrutinize the environment.

In contrast to the merry attitude of the urban upper square, this section of Pewter City was bordering the line of disgusting. The buildings were dilapidated and appeared frightfully close to tumbling over in heaps of rubble and shattered glass. The occasional neon sign flickered weakly, sending ghosts of multicolored light over the uneven ground––James swallowed back his mounting paranoia, suddenly anxious to be away from this deplorable street. It seemed that even the shops were ill, with their garlands suspended crookedly from their eaves and their poster advertisements fluttering lifelessly in the whispers of frigid wind.

Idly, James studied the bold writing that lined the posters, reading but not really processing the words. He only skimmed his gaze over each line that claimed to offer products better than the ones found in any other location––but after he noticed one advertisement, he halted, one foot poised above the sidewalk.

_Silver Rock Barber: Money Exchanged for Hair_

"Eh?" he vocalized unintentionally, whirling around to squint curiously at the sign. He read it once again, merely to ensure that he had seen it correctly and that he had not jumbled up his thoughts with reality.

_This is one of those dinky little places where they can cut your hair to make into wigs and such, _he realized dumbly. _How... how much would they pay for my hair?_

The idea struck him with a fury, and he frowned, mulling over the uncomfortable concept. _Would _he be capable of sauntering inside to boldly ask the barber for payment? He was unsure––it was nearly impossible to even conjure the slightest pinches of regret that he would feel to have his well-kept lilac mop shorn. He had always treasured his hair, and it would have been a task for any mathematician to add together all the hours he had spent before a mirror, preening the lavender tresses until they were glossy and smooth. In his more egotistical moments, he considered his hair to be his most appealing trait––was there anyone who would _not _be envious of him? How could he merely surrender his greatest cosmetic asset?

He stared at the poster emptily, solemnly pondering; but after a struggle with his pride and sense of endearment toward his companions, he impetuously reached out to close his fist around the rusted brass doorknob of the barber shop.

"Hello!" A kindly looking woman stood from her seat, greeting James emphatically. Her red hair was twisted into a bun that rested on the crown of her head, and with warm brown eyes and freckles splashed over her face, she seemed not unlike a playful spaniel. James immediately felt less aloof, almost comfortable, as the woman deftly slid a pair of gleaming chrome scissors into her pocket and patted her palms against the flap of her loose apron.

"What can I do for you, doll?" she questioned simply, gesturing expansively to the row of swivel chairs that paraded the floor in front of the counter. James regarded the assortment of shampoo bottles and mousses, somewhat impressed by this, and murmured in a subdued little whine:

"I saw the sign... in the window, outside... and I was only going to ask if, um, well..."

The woman laughed cheerfully, and James was appalled by her carefree behavior. She offered no sympathy to his disconcerted state as she finished his inquiry for him.

"You wanted to know about the money exchange, is that right?"

James sulked, refusing to meet the woman's prying eyes as he burrowed his hands deeper into his pockets. "Yes, ma'am," he replied softly, his attitude melting beneath her observation.

"Well, let's see what you've got for us, okay?" Without permission, the woman paced closer, and James was unable to dodge as she dipped her hand expertly beneath the ends of his lavender fringe. Stroking the smooth locks between her fingers, she indecisively grunted, critically weighing her answer.

"Hm," she hummed contemplatively. "Well, kitten, I'd have to tell you that we couldn't give you very much. What we look for is _long _hair––very long, at least twenty inches––and your bangs barely fall past your chin. But," she hastily continued, noticing the pained grimace that twisted James's features, "it _has _got quite a lovely color to it. I've never seen any regular young boy come in offering us such pretty hair. In fact, if _I _happened to have such lovely hair, I wouldn't dare rid myself of it. But, if that's what you really want, I could probably give you, say... ten dollars."

James stiffened, pressing his lips together in a grim line of helplessness. _Ten dollars? _he silently wailed in disbelief. _My hair is to be gone for only ten dollars? If it were at any other time, I would certainly refuse such a meager pay. But I have others to think about––if Brock saw me showing such selfishness, he would throttle me! _

"I would like to have it cut, please."

The request was no complex structure of words, but James had to force each syllable past the mound that was settling in the core of his throat. He knew the sudden constriction well as the prelude to a bout of nervous weeping, but that matter could be battled with while he was having his hair cropped. He accepted the woman's guidance as she directed him to a chair, and, while he slowly lowered himself into the warm leather cushion, found himself to be almost nauseated.

"Look, honey, would you like to make yourself at ease?" the woman offered. "It won't take me long, but you might want to take a newspaper or perhaps a magazine to read through while I'm busy. You seem sick," she observed.

"Thank you, ma'am, but I think I should wait," James courteously declined, sinking his teeth into his tongue to keep a weak whimper barred. "I'd much rather have it over quickly, if you aren't offended by my saying so."

"Of course," the woman assured. "I'll do my best to finish as soon as I'm able. Now, why don't you relax just a bit? Your shoulders are so stiff that I can barely wedge my clippers in to reach your bangs."

James suddenly realized how tense and inflexible his posture was, and lightly shook himself, loosening his frame. He was barely given enough time to cross his legs before the polished blade of the scissors bit into his sheet of hair, cleanly disposing of several inches of frosted violet-tinted threads.

_Oh, dear, _he groaned softly, watching his reflection in the long wall mirror. He visually traced the invisible pattern that the falling clumps of hair took, and the instant that they brushed gently against the linoleum floor, he looked up––his eyes widened, and he felt a familiar tingle press into the pads of his fingertips.

Where a lilac-colored curtain of gleaming hair had hung against his cheeks, there were now only short, uneven tufts that appeared to be of a dark blue hue. His confusion must have been betrayed in his expression, as the barber soothingly informed, "Hair is usually darker near the top of the head, honey. Now that it's short, the color is deeper. But don't fret yourself over it; it's every bit as nice as it was before––even nicer, actually. You may have noticed that in this part of the country, boys go more for the short styles. Not to say that yours wasn't pretty, or even very long, but..."

Moodily, James slouched lower in the swivel chair, clicking the heels of his boots against the metal rungs of the seat as he attempted to ignore the steady _snip-snip _sound of the scissors hungrily clacking about his head. He focused his attention instead on memorizing the complicated French titles that were pasted on various bottles of grooming products, refusing to glance at the mirror again.

"Well, do you want to see how it came out?" the woman suggested suddenly, and James was startled to realize that she had completed her task. Before he could stop himself from doing so, he wrenched around in his chair and gaped at the image that the mirror presented to him.

How had the stylist announced the session over so quickly? James reached up in a dull panic, scraping his fingers through the messy cerulean wisps––his hair had lost its luster after being cropped, and felt unpleasantly coarse. Tassels of blue protruded in all angles from his scalp, some longer than others, some almost wavy, some lying flat. The result was a disarray of untidy curls that immensely disappointed James, more so than it would have had the finished product been more decent.

"Don't cry over it," the woman briskly warned, and James was now convinced that she bore no merry spaniel's disposition when she immersed herself in her business, nor when people displayed annoyance at her work. "There was no guarantee for satisfaction, kitten, and you should probably remind yourself not to expect anything overly grand when you are the one being paid."

"O––of course you're right, ma'am," James meekly replied, feeling a foreboding chill crawl up his neck. Shakily, he stood, dusted the front of his sports coat and slacks, and expectantly regarded the barber. After returning his glare, she dutifully bustled behind the lobby's counter to exercise skill against the cumbersome cash register; James listened nervously to the cacophonous tapping of the numbered buttons. When the woman returned, she was waving a thin roll of wrinkled dollar bills triumphantly.

"There you go, sweetheart," she smiled slyly, and James was certainly not expecting her to lift the corner of his jacket, or for her to lean closer and tuck the money into his side pocket. Her hand rested just a while too long on his hip, and he had to step backwards before she drew away.

"I––I––I, uh, thank you," James stammered, and after awkwardly raising his hand in a motion that suggested tipping a nonexistent cap, he turned and rushed from the shop in a flurry of coattails and loose curls.

If God allowed it, he would not ever again return to this corner of Pewter.

* * *

><p>James spent no great deal of time pursuing the gifts he intended to purchase––he had already envisioned how each present would be painstakingly wrapped in multicolored paper. Often without knowing that he was doing so, he would press his fingers into his pocket to stroke the thin leaves of money, as if to ensure that they were indeed still in his possession.<p>

Though earlier his wounded pride had settled like a carton of boulders within his chest, now he felt almost elated as he pushed his palms to the wide window of the general market. His jade eyes glistened with glee as he dragged his gaze over the small tag that was plastered to an oversized box––_eight dollars_, James grinned secretively. _Brock was never very subtle about the things he wished to have, and that's quite fortunate for me. I know exactly what he would like, and now that I've enough to get it, I can finally give just a little bit back to him. After everything he's done for me, I should hope that I give him at least _something _in return. _

He deftly slid in amongst a small cluster of chattering women that had gathered around the entrance of the shop; hastily ducking to narrowly miss being struck by an elbow, he shoved himself against the red brick wall and sucked in a great mouthful of air. The instant that the crowd filed into the market, he detached himself and flounced inside behind them.

While all other customers had long ago become occupied by reverently observing each of the shop's extravagant articles of merchandise, James weaved his way through the aisles of highly priced assorted novelties, having been acquainted with the market enough to know the precise location of his destination.

_There! _Had he not been in the company of innumerable citizens, he would have embraced himself with unbridled joy. The reason behind his delight was simple, for there, set proudly on the highest shelf, was a perfect, modern leather briefcase.

Brock had frequently mentioned his desires of carrying such a clean, convenient, and expensive briefcase along with him to the research center where he claimed a career; the briefcase had also been a subject that sprouted its way into many conversations had between James and Brock. Each time, without ever missing a round, that they chanced to bypass the general market on their route back to the apartment they shared, Brock had idly commented on the valise––the exceptional quality of its leather, or how sturdy the chrome buckles on it seemed. It had become almost routine for James to teasingly poke Brock's ribs, asking him in a playful, childish tone if he wished to wed the briefcase.

Without giving way to any forms of doubt, James had been certain that the briefcase was the one thing that his roommate truly wanted. And he never allotted himself the moment to question if spending such a large sum of money was wise––if it pleased Brock, who really was concerned about how wise his choice was?

* * *

><p>As he resumed his journey to the apartment, he tightly clutched the messily wrapped package to his chest––the precious package that was worth eight dollars. He scarcely noticed the flakes of moist snow that clung to his new curls as he trampled the sheet of ice that cloaked the walkway; his feet sank deep into the chilled earth, and each step proved to require more effort to complete. When he at last managed to plod through the lobby of the apartment building, he realized that his ecstasy was beginning to dwindle at a rapid rate.<p>

He bade a downcast 'hello' to the doorman, who removed his orange cap respectfully and rather uncertainly.

"What's got you so gloomy, Master James?" the doorman wondered, politely carrying out his assigned chore of operating the elevator. James sagged against the glass wall with fatigue, his lack of enthusiasm unusual even to the doorman.

"It isn't anything, sir," James exhaled softly, gently holding the bundled briefcase and resting his chin on its curved corner. He closed his eyes as the elevator rumbled ominously, and with a groan and a jerk, embarked on its smooth ascent to the sixth story of the building.

"Some package you have there," the bellhop remarked, nodding at the portfolio. James laughed lightly, not opening his eyes as he fondled a loose edge of its wrapping.

"Yes; it's to be Brock's Christmas present," he informed ruefully. "But you shall keep it a surprise, won't you? You won't speak of it when he comes in tonight?"

"I won't let a word of it out to him," the doorman promised, and clicked his finger into the large switch that controlled the elevator door. The sliding glass wall wheezed and creaked before rolling open, and James stepped out, shifting his parcel to the crook of his other arm in order to pinch a nickel from his pocket––he had decided to request coins rather than paper money when receiving his change for the briefcase at the market.

"Thank you very much, sir," he gratefully acknowledged, dropping the nickel into the bellhop's spread palm. The man grinned widely, surrendering the coin to his own pocket and giving a low bow.

"No, I thank you, Master James," he courteously claimed. "And I hope Master Brock enjoys the gift you've gotten him. And also..."

James cocked his head, awaiting the final words of the extended sentence.

"I find this new choice of hairstyle to be rather endearing," the doorman confided, a kind, fatherly warmth sidling into his expression.

James felt his cold-flushed cheeks sting, and he anxiously tucked a loose curl behind his ear as the doorman smiled.

"G––good day," he mumbled shyly, and after securing his grip on the briefcase, briskly tromped down the narrow, dimly lit hall. There were dozens of oaken doors, and few boasted signs to give them meaning, but James knew well the tiny section that he and Brock had claimed to be their home. He halted in front of a battered door, and after sifting through the few belongings and pieces of rubbish in his wallet, slid his key from between several expired voucher tickets.

Thrusting his elbow against the door, effectively prodding it to open even after pacifying it with the copper key, he paced inside the room and greedily inhaled the fragrant scent of cinnamon and laundry soaps. The odor was like an aromatherapy ointment; it ironed out his crimped nerves and relaxed his rigid back. Despite being sure that no true harm would develop from his situation, he felt somewhat nervous as he trekked to the closet, transferring the briefcase to the highest shelf where it was safely out of sight.

_I really shouldn't be, but I'm worried that Brock will be upset with me, _James sighed, stepping delicately over the mounds of unwashed clothes and various misplaced half-consumed packets of crisps. He shuddered as his stockinged feet pressed into the cold tile floor of the kitchen, and lazily leaned over the counter to fumble with the awkward, cumbersome heater that had been installed into the window. Once a steady gust of warm air began to caress his frost-nipped cheeks, he deemed it satisfactory and set about preparing a small meal to welcome Brock's return.

* * *

><p>Rattling loudly on the surface of the stovetop, the iron kettle of foaming vegetable broth breathed smooth coils of steam upwards, the intangible white ribbons twisting into complicated curlicues. James watched, a crease of concentration wrinkling the bridge of his nose. The starchy, pungent aroma of boiling potatoes was thick in the atmosphere, but he was unable to relish how tempting the smell was as he absentmindedly twirled a limp blue curl around his finger. Despite his surroundings being cheerfully bright and pleasant, he felt chilled and apprehensive.<p>

A contrast to earlier, his thoughts were now dark and troubled, swollen with wary musings of what could be Brock's possible reaction to his decision. James desperately prayed, clasping his hands together, that his roommate would not reprimand him. In the best of outcomes, Brock would even commend him for displaying a sacrificial nature.

Ruefully, he pulled his fingers through his short, ragged wisps of hair. As soon as he had placed the pot of broth on the oven range, he had tripped into the bathroom to desperately attempt repairing the damage that had been done to his hair––unfortunately, no amount of fervent brushing and ruffling could ease the sight of the tattered locks.

_I still don't know what I would do if they hated me for it_, he dolefully mourned. _If only Brock would appreciate me for it instead of scolding. But if he does scold, I can always talk my way out of it. _

Moaning dejectedly, he plucked at the hem of his threadbare sweater, meticulously adjusting the folds of the garment that had bunched around his slim waist. But though his trembling hands were occupied, there was little he could do to quell the icy, foreboding sensation that expanded ominously in his core.

"_James!_" Suddenly, a startling racket sounded, the flimsy front door shaking and bending beneath the pressure of a knocking fist––it was at that moment that James became petrified. Not because the noise had frightened him, but rather, because of the name that Brock had chosen to call him. Brock seldom referred to him by his given name––it was always by an affectionate, singsong "Jamie," or, when he was feeling especially jovial, "Jim." When Brock happened to call him "James," though, it only served to warn others that he was in a particularly sour mood.

Cautiously, James stood, habitually smoothing the front of his jumper and furiously tousling his hair in a helpless try at coaxing himself to look more presentable. Shaking his head determinedly, he proceeded to cross the room in a few long strides, and, situating himself boldly in front of the door, inhaled deeply and unclasped the weathered latch.

"I'm serious, James," Brock muttered as he pushed his way inside, "if it wasn't for the good Lord above, I would have––" He stopped abruptly, letting his complaint drop uncompleted, and the sulky dullness of his squinted eyes flattened.

"What did you _do_?" he interrogated tartly, and James invited himself to a clumsy step backwards as Brock angrily shrugged out of his trench coat and hurled it, in a crumpled ball, to the corner.

"A-about what?" James faltered, crossing his arms behind his back and unconsciously nudging his thumbs together.

"You know what," Brock countered. "Your _hair_. I just got back from a god-awful day, and now, when I come back to my own home expecting complete normalcy, I find that you've been influenced and cut your hair? Why did you do that, for? It doesn't look good."

At this unintentional insult, James's complexion went ashen. He averted his gaze, dumbfounded by Brock's uncharacteristic outburst, and continued to stammer:

"I-I sold it––my hair, that is. But it wasn't to spite anyone, nor because of my own preference, honestly," he admitted. "It was only to buy gifts for everyone. You know perfectly well that I don't have any money––that's why I'm living with you, now, until I can find myself a job, remember? But I bought you something..."

"No," Brock firmly interjected, raising his hand as an order for James to remain where he was. "Whatever you have for me, I don't want you to get it. Not yet, anyway. Before any of that, I just want you to see what got me so upset about your hair."

James observed in awe as Brock slowly retrieved his coat, searching through the deep pockets; shortly, he unearthed a small, bulky parcel that had been crudely wrapped in plain tissue paper. Brock roused himself to his feet, and, extending his arm, pressed the light package into James's open palm.

"Just open it," Brock gruffly instructed. "After you see it, I'll take it back."

Confused by this statement, James plucked at the tissue paper, peeling away layer after layer. The rustling sound of the package being stripped intensified as his excitement mounted, and it climaxed with disbelieving yelp that burst from between James's lips.

"It's so _lovely_!" he exclaimed, clutching the parcel tightly in a mild fit of undiluted rapturous emotion. He peered up into Brock's disapproving narrow eyes, but even that did nothing to quench his happiness.

For, nestled into the sheets of paper, winked a silver-plated barrette. Numerous miniscule crystals had been implanted into the gleaming comb, making it glint teasingly when in the focus of any light and sending tiny splashes of color across whatever was in the path of its reflection––but the sheer beauty of the piece resided in the rose that had been formed in its center. Created of blown glass, the bud had been masterfully carved, a perfect copy of a natural rose even down to the ridges that lined the clear twisted petals. It was all so dainty that it seemed very much as if even venturing to touch it would result in the glass rose shattering.

Brock smiled, but grief made his grin fade prematurely. "It was a pretty penny stupidly spent," he commented lamely. "Your hair is much too short for you to wear it, now."

The realization made James pause, his hands cupping the barrette laxly, so powerlessly that Brock knew James was silently giving up the ornamental pin. It made a familiar ache dig into his chest to have elated his friend so hurriedly, only to disappoint him––but what use had the barrette, anyway, besides one of vanity?

"Why... why don't you show me what you bought today?" Brock suggested, swallowing back the guilt that barreled up his throat. He accepted the handful of tissue paper and the heavy pin as James wordlessly turned to the closet, vaulting himself on tiptoe to reach the edge of a leaden, unwieldy package.

"This is for you," James reiterated, his voice subdued as he offered the gift to Brock––his roommate wrestled with the large box and suspiciously began to shed the parcel of its brown paper wrapping. Brock had not even removed the corner of the paper before he choked on his incredulity.

"Jamie," he started, his tone wavering oddly. "The briefcase... you managed to get something this expensive for me, even though you barely have anything for yourself."

James timidly raised his shoulders in a gesture of drained, empty carelessness. "You wanted it, and no one else knew that you did. So I bought it for you. But that thing cost no where near as much as the barrette must have. I never mentioned wanting something like that, either––how did you find out?"

Brock smirked lightly, but there was no trace of smugness in his expression. "I only made a guess as to what you'd like. You love fancy things, especially clothes and whatnot, but that was one thing that I never saw you wear––a hair-clip. And that barrette was the color that would match your hair... before you had it cut, at least."

James emitted a soft sigh, lowering his chin to rest in his palm as he gently traced his fingertip over the smooth curve of the barrette comb. "I won't be able to use it for now," he murmured. "But... my hair grows quite fast, really, so it will be no time before I'm able to wear it. Thank you."

Brock was busily absorbing the beauty of his coveted briefcase, testing its buckles and experimenting with the new hinges. But there was a certain zeal lacking in his exploration, and he hesitated to inform James of the matter.

"Jamie... I have to tell you something," he confessed. "You see, I won't be able to use this briefcase at work. Today was the day that I asked for a raise, because my paycheck came in and I only needed a mere few dollars to get you that barrette. But I was told that, because of the job shortage, I was to be let go after this month. So... I guess Christmas came at the wrong time for both of us, didn't it," he laughed humorlessly.

There were no words that James could form to comfort either Brock or himself. Instead of speaking his consolation, he launched himself toward Brock in a teary blur, and hooked his arms desperately around the man's middle. His wrists pressed into the muscle sketches of Brock's lower back, and it was only an instant that Brock tensed, holding his hands away from James as if blatantly proving his disgust for an infatuated child. But after a moment, his distaste morphed into an indescribable warmth that surrounded his heart, and he tenderly enveloped his strong arms over James's quivering body.

"Thank you, Jamie," he mumbled against James's rough thatch of curls. "I suppose that we aren't the best of gift-givers, but even though we should have put more common sense into what we chose, I think that no other present could have pleased me more than what you gave me."

James didn't mind the tears that clouded his vision at that moment, because really, he knew that he had been foolish. But when anyone else would have emphasized his folly, Brock had lovingly calmed him. The idea struck him that, perhaps, he was one of the more fortunate people in Pewter City, as he had seen few people who boasted the blessing of a companion such as Brock was.

For the first time, James felt a chill crawl up his spine to settle in his neck, and Brock lowered his hand to James's nape, his calloused skin frightening away the cold.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I have no self-control. That should have been much shorter. And less... corny. I read it over, and though I don't particularly _dislike _it, something about it seems off. Maybe it was because I was nervous that I was making Brock and James seem less like roommates/best friends and more like... well... lovers. But I think it turned out to be acceptable. Friendship is just one of those things that you can never find the right words to describe.

And pfft, men. My father has never gotten me a gift that I wanted, but for some reason, I love it much more than the things I really wanted to have that were given to me by people I don't know very well. So I guess maybe Brock and James learned their cheesy lesson on gift giving.

By the way, if you haven't read it already, I highly recommend the short story _The Gift of the Magi _by O. Henry. It's a lovely story, and much better than this spin-off fanfiction.

As always, reviews are appreciated, but criticism is loved. Any form of feedback will be valued, but advice will always be more treasured. Merry Christmas (in three weeks...)!


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